Justice
by Frances Gumm
Summary: ON HIATUS. Meg doesn't die in the forest. Unfortunately for Guy, this means things are about to get a lot worse...
1. Chapter 1

**JUSTICE**

**A/N: Okay, awful title – but I honestly have no idea where this story came from. I never had any intention of writing Robin Hood fanfiction. In fact, I almost certainly didn't write this, it just sort of ... **_**appeared**_** on my laptop one night when I was meant to be redrafting the Harry Potter story I have been writing since the dawn of time.**

**Must be a virus, right?**

**Anyway, I figured the only way to get rid of this evil plot bunny, short of stewing it, was to set set it free on . If anyone would like to adopt it you are welcome to the bloody thing!**

**Chapter One**

Meg's body is still warm. A moment ago, when Guy reached out to cover her small hand, the heat from her fingers had almost thawed his own, stiffened from weeks spent in a cold dungeon. He walks to the bank of the lake and does not look back, fists clenching remembered warmth. He longs to touch her again but fears the clammy moisture of death that will soon imprint itself upon her skin – its sickly, yellow-white pallour.

Instead he stares at the still water. The forest is silent. His mind is not.

Images invade it – phantasms of gnawing mice and the sharp beaks of ravens, sticky with dirt and human sinew. Try as he might he cannot rid himself of the sight of her pretty little face ruined by decay. He will have to bury her. Dig the grave with his bare hands because there isn't anything else, hands still slick with her blood, press her into the damp earth with the worms and the centipedes.

No ... it is too much to contemplate that now.

He forces himself to relinquish thoughts of burial, only to find them replaced by a litany of others, in turns gruesome and cruel. He has done so many evil things in his life that he is left with no memories to take solace in. Even the happy ones are tainted with betrayal.

Mist curls across the surface of the lake. He draws it into his lungs, lining them like a funeral shroud, creating within himself the absent certainty that he might sit here forever and never see the dawn, that he has reached the quiet end of days.

It should have been him. The spear biting into _his _side, _his_ blood spent on the forest floor. Granted, this fate has a cruel symmetry to it – he destroyed Marian out of a love so mercurial it turned to hate, and that same hatred turned to humanity has destroyed Meg. But surely God would not want to exact His vengeance upon an innocent girl?

No. Not God. The Devil has done this. The Devil in him. What on earth possessed him to pick the maggots from her bread? A strange kindness. If he hadn't done so then the wretched girl would still be alive. Would never have come back for him, in any case. Would never have stepped in front of that spear.

Would never have saved him.

A branch snaps somewhere in the forest and he whirls around. Have they followed him, Isabella's men? No. No ... the sound came from the other side of the lake, a bird startled from its perch by an agile fox, perhaps, or an owl swooping for its prey in the velvet darkness. He scans the reeds on the opposite bank. They flutter like his nerves, unsettled by a sudden breeze. Above him the leaves move skittishly one against the other. His shoulders relax slightly.

Just a fox, he thinks.

It is dark when Guy regains consciousness. The clammy night air clings unpleasantly to his face and neck. Even his eyelids are sticky with it. He tries to move his arms and realises with a sinking sense of familiarity that he is tied to a tree.

Somewhere to his right he can hear the low crackling of a fire. Turning his face towards it, a blinding pain slices through his skull. He closes his eyes against the wave of white nausea that follows. When it is past he opens them again, slowly, although he already knows whose face he will see illuminated by the deep orange embers.

Hood hasn't noticed that his prisoner is awake. He stares into the flames like a victim of hypnosis. Guy musters a sneer of contempt as he drags his gaze away from his enemy, losing it in the misshapen blackness of the forest.

He wonders if they have found her.

A few moments later there is noise behind him. Leaves crunch underfoot, followed by voices. Guy slumps forward, ignoring the fresh bloom of pain at the nape of his neck as hairs are ripped from a congealed wound.

A rock, then. No wonder he cannot remember the fight.

He listens to the voices by the fire. It is the giant, John Little. He wants Hood to go back to the shelter and rest. "I'll keep watch," he says.

"No," says Hood. "He won't escape justice this time."

Their voices drop low and terse. After a moment the giant wins out and there is a louder rustling as the two men exchange places. Guy listens to the departing footsteps through the fallen leaves. He knows he should feel something. Indignance, vengeful anger ... but his chest is dry and hollow, like a straw man in a dark winter's field. He has even lost the dull, animal rage that has sustained him in these long months since...

Since.

Tuck and Allan are still awake when Robin enters the shelter. Much snores softly, and nearby Kate is wrapped in his precious rabbit-skin blanket, knees drawn protectively into her chest. A lantern, hung from crude rafters, swings in the breeze.

He wishes he could join them, but doubts that sleep will come easily tonight. Too much has happened: Isabella's betrayal, Kate's feelings for him, and now this...

He glances down at the girl that Brother Tuck is tending. Fifteen, maybe younger. The same age Marian was when he left for the Crusades. Her gown has been torn open to allow him to work and Robin quickly averts his gaze. It is not her nakedness that disturbs him, but something about the wound itself that stirs up long-stifled emotions. Sediments of pain which transport him from the forest to a hot, dusty square in the Holy Land ... one that is stained with his wife's blood.

"Will she live?"

"She's lost a lot of blood," says Tuck, without looking up, "but if we can prevent infection there will be nothing to stop her from making a full recovery."

"Good," says Robin.

His voice feels distant, drowned out by another, inward voice.

_Gisbourne has done this..._

Tuck finishes smearing a poulstice on the neatly stitched wound and starts bandaging it with lengths of gauze. Robin isn't sure where the material has come from, but he is too distracted to care very much. His thoughts are with Marian, and the monster outside who has killed her a second time. _Who I have allowed to kill a second time._ A dull headache pounds behind his eyes. Turning towards the bunk, he finds his way blocked by Allan, who steps in front of him with a strangled look upon his face.

"What about Guy?" he asks.

Robin's expression hardens. "He was condemned to death," he says. "We'll wait until dawn, and then make sure that the sentance is carried out."

"I'm not being funny, but—"

"You are being funny, Allan, if you're going to suggest we do anything else." He looks down at the girl. "Gisbourne has shown no remorse for his crimes, and I was a fool to let keep committing them. Even if he had shown remorse then he would still deserve to die. He killed Marian, and he would have killed this girl if we hadn't found him tonight."

Tuck looks up in surprise. "He spoke for her at the execution," he says, drawing his cloak over the girl's freshly bandaged torso. "He pleased for her life, with no thought for his own release."

"No, he didn't."

"We all saw it," Tuck insists, not liking this change in Robin. He glances at the sleeping outlaws, and then at Allan, who gives a tight nod as if not trusting himself to speak. "Ask yourself this, Robin – if Gisbourne was truly responsible for the girl's injuries, then why would he go to the trouble of dragging her so far out into the forest? Why not just leave her in Nottingham?"

"I cannot believe you are speaking for him!" Robin cries incredulously. Kate stirs in her sleep and he lowers his voice to a harsh whisper. "He probably brought her out here so that he could ... so that he could _savour_ the crime without us trying to stop him! After all, we had to interupt him last time—"

"Robin, see sense—"

"This is not a matter for discussion!"

Tuck watches him for a moment and then sighs in defeat, seeing that whatever has come over Robin, there will be no reasoning with him tonight. "Very well. Kill Gisbourne if you must, but make sure that you are doing it for the right reasons. Revenge for its own sake is never sated, Robin. You might find that it leads to more problems than it solves."

Robin smiles at this, an ugly, insincere twist of the mouth. Allan takes a step back. He recognises that smile from the long voyage back from the Holy Land. There was a touch of madness in it back then, mingled with voiceless grief, but it has never truly frightened him until now. He looks away, frowning at the girl – Meg, was it? – at the same time acutely conscious of the condemned man they have tied to a tree outside. Only Tuck can meet Robin's gaze without flinching.

After a moment something in that gaze seems to wither. Robin's shoulders slump in exhaustion, and he turns back to his bunk, pausing with his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, like a man who has travelled long and far only to find himself at the base of an unsurpassable mountain.

He speaks with quiet determination. "When the sun rises, Gisbourne dies..."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** **Sorry for the huge delay! My plot bunny morphed into the evil rabbit at the end of Holy Grail before escaping altogether. If anyone sees him, please return to sender, or alternatively, RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY!**

**Ahem. Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed. I'll be honest and say that I am completely out of my fandom here, so Chapter Two has only been written because I couldn't live with the guilt of ignoring you **

**To those who mentioned Robin's vengeance is possibly slightly out of character for this late in Series Three, I've made some edits to reflect your comments, but haven't removed Robin's desire for vengeance completely, because it's something I'll be exploring in the coming chapters.**

**Here goes...**

**Chapter Two**

Allan waits until Robin and Tuck are asleep before creeping out of the shelter. It is a strange night, both cold and humid, and as he pads towards the fire he tugs at the collar of his shirt, trying to loosen a knot which, though imaginary, still chokes.

The fire has burnt low, its embers casting a ruddy glow over John's features, making him appear even more forbidding than usual. Allan stops a few paces away and glances at the oak tree to which Gisbourne is tied, his slumped and motionless form barely more than a clot of darkness. He supresses a shudder.

"I don't like this," he says.

John doesn't answer, but Allan is used to playing a tough crowd. "Robin's acting weird," he continues. "Holy Land weird. It's like he's regressed. I mean, one minute we're supposed to leave Gisbourne in a hell of his own making, or whatever, and the next Robin's turned dark avenger. Doesn't that seem a bit – well, a bit off? Considering all the opportunities he's had..."

"It seems like justice to me."

"Yeah?" Allan snorts. "Well, last time I checked, we were outlaws, not judges."

John watches him darkly. "Do you think we should let him go?"

"What? No! I mean..." Allan hunkers down by the fire, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I just don't want Robin doing anything he'll regret later. You know? At the execution, we all saw Gisbourne ask Isabella to spare that girl's life. He was practically begging! John, have you _ever _seen Gisbourne beg?"

"You point being?"

"Robin saw it too! And now he's in there spouting some nonsense about how Gizzy dragged her off into the forest to finish her off in private. I'm telling you, mate, it's like he's had a blow to head or something!" He watches John's stony expression for a few moments before letting out a sigh, trying to expell a strange feeling of helplessness. He knows he shouldn't be feeling this, not for Gisbourne of all people, but the reality of what they are going to do is like a cold fist clenching inside his chest, cutting off the air supply. Sitting back on his haunches, arse in the dirt, he stares bleakly into the embers. "It's not just Robin," he murmurs. "If we did this, it wouldn't be an execution, it wouldn't like killing castle guards or because we were under attack. Whatever Gisbourne's done ... it would still be murder."

"Like he murdered Kate's brother."

"I'm not saying he doesn't deserve it!" cries Allan, not sure who he is more frustrated with – John or himself. "Christ knows I'd like to kill him myself after what he did to me, but Gisbourne should face justice, not revenge, and that's what this is, whatever it seems like. Robin isn't about that. Not _our_ Robin. Think about it. Do you honestly think that Gisbourne did this? Dragged an innocent girl, a girl whose life he begged Isabella to spare, out into the forest just to stab her in the stomach?"

John scowls, unwilling to be drawn down this line of argument. Truth be told he is surprised by Robin's attitude, and finds it hard to believe that Gisbourne is responsible for the girl's injuries; but he is willing to turn a blind eye to Robin's strange behaviour if it means getting rid of Gisbourne. "Look. I don't like this either, but that is why _we_ are men and _he_—" this with a harsh nod towards Gisbourne, "—is a monster. Only a monster could think of killing a man in cold blood and not feel uneasy about doing it. Do you think he'd hestitate if the boot was on the other foot?"

Baffled and more than a little frustrated, Allan shakes his head. "Then why can't we just take him back to Nottingham? Let Isabella finish what she started..."

"Because she is also a monster."

"So? Monsters killing monsters – it's got a good ring to it. Biblical."

John huffs impatiently. "Allan, _what_ are you talking about?"

"I don't know," he admits, kicking his heels in the dirt. "Just thinking out loud..."

"Well. Don't."

Allan's gaze travels back to the tree where Gisbourne is tied. Two eyes glitter in the darkness, and he realises with a prickle of unease that Gisbourne is awake, and has been listening to every word. He licks his lips nervously.

"You look knackered, John," he says, in a light, easy tone that seems to have strayed from another conversation entirely. "Why don't you go back into the shelter and get some rest? I'll take the last watch..."

John looks at him sharply. His gaze is piercing, and Allan is glad of the darkness as his face and neck flush a deep crimson. _What was he thinking? _After a few minutes of enduring John's silent, unblinking scutiny, he stands up and makes a great show of patting the dirt from his trousers.

"Suit yourself," he says shakily. "I'm off for a walk. Need to get some air..."

Without waiting for John's answer he turns and stalks off into the forest. It is all he can do not to break out into a run when he feels two pairs of eyes watching him go.

The first thing she hears is the song of a blackbird, sharp and bright in the morning air, followed by the sound of water bubbling beneath the lid of a copper pot. Meg hovers somewhere just beyond sleep, until the growing cacophony intrudes enough into her slumber to banish it completely. She curls her lips back from dry teeth and tries to open her eyes, which feel like they have been sealed with wax. Every ounce of her body feels thick and heavy, and when her eyelids finally peel open she is almost blinded by the sunlight streaming in through crude rafters.

Her father must have locked her in the stables again.

No, that can't be right...

Turning her head experimentally to one side, she sees a man in a tight cap sitting next to the pot, plucking feathers from the dead pheasant clamped between his knees, his expression intent and somehow troubled.

"Who are you?" she croaks.

The man looks up, startled. "You're awake!"

"Obviously," she mutters. Troubling images surface in her mind's eye: dungeons, the ominous roll of execution drums, a jeering crowd. She tries to it up. As her muscles contract, a sudden hot pain slices through her torso, and she falls back with a sharp cry.

The man scrambles to his feet, dropping the pheasant in the process.

"Please don't do that – the wound – Tuck says it will get infected—"

"Where am I?" Meg demands, gasping. "Who..."

He stops a few yards away. Unsure of what to do he picks up the bird, brushing it hurriedly with his sleeve. Its pimpled skin is now encrusted with dirt and grime.

"You're in Robin Hood's camp," he explains, looking miserably at the spoiled dinner. "I'm Much."

Meg barely registers his words. She is standing at the base of a scaffold, seeing the flash of sharp metal in the afternoon sun. A man charges towards her with a raised spear. Later, in the forest, a warm mouth press against her own...

Then darkness.

"I'm dead," she murmurs, staring at the rafters in bewilderment. "I remember..."

"We found you in the forest. You've lost a lot of blood."

"In the forest?"

"Yes."

She closes her eyes in a vain attempt to bring order to her teeming thoughts. "There was a man with me," she says. "Sir Guy ... did you find him too?"

Much doesn't answer immediately. She hears footsteps, followed by sloshing water, and when she opens her eyes he is standing beside her, holding out a wooden beaker.

"Here. Drink this," he says.

She pushes his hand away. "I asked you a question."

"You should get some rest."

"Are you deaf?"

"Tuck says-"

"Tuck says this, Tuck says that - I'm beginning to think you're Tuck's parrot!" she cries, and Much gives her a wounded look, which infuriates her even further. Determined to prove him wrong, she grits her teeth and forced herself upright. "There. You can tell your friend Tuck that I've never felt better."

It is a lie, of course: her stomach is now a furnace of pain, radiating down her thighs and into her lungs, leaving her dangerously light-headed. But she refuses to show weakness in front of the outlaw. However noble his cause might be, he is still a man! So she catches her breath by feigning interest in her surroundings, her slightly unfocussed gaze trailing from the roughly hewn bunks to the wooden staff leant against the door post, then into the clearing beyond, where the sees the ashy remnants of a fire and an oak tree looped with rope. _Something strange._ Leaves rustling across the ground, scattered by a cool breeze that slips through the trees...

The scene comes suddenly into focus as Meg realises what is strange about it: why the water bubbled so loudly beneath the copper pot, why the blackbird's song was so sharp and clear. The camp is deserted.

"Where is everyone?" she asks.

Much is staring at her as though she is an optical illusion. He blinks at the question, and it takes him a moment to find his voice. "They'll be back soon ... I mean, they have something ... there's this thing they have to take care of ..."

"Is Guy with them?"

Silence again. She watches him carefully, trying to work out whether there is more to his evasiveness than sheer stupidity. Nervous and miserable, Much glances out into the clearing, his gaze coming to rest on the oak tree she had noticed a few moments before. Above the rope she sees a dark stain on the bark. Meg realises, with curiosity and a growing sense of unease, that she is looking at dried blood.

"You don't have to be afraid of him," Much says, his voice quiet and strangely hollow. "Not for very much longer..."


End file.
